A Very Small Something
by CaffieneKitty
Summary: Molly has a miserable day, and then gets a phone call. (Contains references to TRF)


**Title:** A Very Small Something  
**Rating/Content:** PG. Stress-influenced dietary decisions. Set post-TRF, so references to that episode.  
**Disclaimer:** Neither the world or the characters are mine, and I believe Molly is specifically Moffat and Gatiss' creation.  
**Summary:** Molly has a miserable day, and then gets a phone call.  
**A/N:** The tried and true therapy of giving a fictional character my crappy day strikes again.

-.-  
**A Very Small Something**  
_by CaffieneKitty_  
-.-

A bowl of ice cream, the tailings of a jar of strawberry jam and an enormous blob of Nutella. _There,_ thought Molly, throwing the large serving spoon into the sink with a disgusted clatter. _Dinner._

Toby looked up at her from his own less-sugary more-fishy dinner at the sudden noise and meowed.

"Don't you start," Molly huffed, pulling a smaller spoon from her cutlery drawer and shoving it shut, only to have the drawer coast closed with a quiet snick.

She cursed Ikea bitterly.

Gathering her bowl and spoon, she stomped and muttered her way over to the sofa and flopped down.

Of course her mobile rang.

Bowl perched on her stomach Molly seriously considered letting it ring out, but it could be the hospital with something urgent. She set the bowl aside, got up and retrieved her phone from her coat by the door.

'Dr. J. Watson' the display read. _Fantastic. Second worst possible person-_ She thumbed the answer button. "What."

"Molly?"

"Yes. What."

"Hi. Um. I hope I'm not bothering you, but Sherlock just-"

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "Oh don't tell me he's got you phoning in apologies for him now."

"Apol- What's he done?"

"He- well-" Molly dropped back down onto the sofa. "It's not anything specific, only it's some days he just, you know, _is_, and it's like, like wearing a blouse made of nettles. Drives me mad."

John laughed. "Yeah, I know the feeling. Not so much the blouse-wearing part though."

Molly smirked and gave Toby a pat when he jumped up beside her. "You would know what he's like if anyone would."

"I thought after the-" John paused. It hadn't been that long, and faked death or not, the grieving had still been real for John. "I thought you and he had a sort of friendship going after that. Or more than you had before."

Wedging the phone under her ear, Molly retrieved her sugary 'dinner' and gave it a stir, watching the colours chase her spoon. "So did I, but he's been just as bad since he came back. I thought he might be less of, well. Less of a prat, but apparently I'm wrong about that too."

John chuckled. "I don't think even coming back from the grave for real would change Sherlock that much. 'Prat' is coded into his DNA."

"You're probably right." Molly giggled. "So if he's not making you apologise for him, and you aren't apologising for him regardless of whether he's making you or not, why did you call?"

"Well. He came in tonight in a whirl of coat, as per."

"As per."

"And he started going on, you know, the usual, surrounded by idiots, tiny little brains, waving his hands around like a mad orchestra conductor and shouting the place down."

Molly sagged further into the sofa, poking at her ice cream. "He would do after spending three hours around me."

"No, no, that's not it at all. In the middle of it, he said something I thought you should hear."

"What?" Molly braced herself.

"He said, 'If it weren't for Molly Hooper, the whole of Bart's Hospital would be better off used as a nursery school. She's the only person there with even a spark of thought in her head, if she'd bother to use it.'"

The spoon clattered into the bowl as Molly put a hand over her mouth.

John's voice rushed to fill the sudden silence. "I mean, it's his usual backwards way of saying things, but he meant- He respects you Molly, in his own way. He might not say it to you directly, but he does. You know he'd never have asked you to help him with- to help him the way you did last year if he didn't respect you and trust you."

She took a breath. "I know. I mean I guess I know after, you know, _things,_ it's just-" Molly sighed, rubbing her nose and willing herself not to cry. "It's really nice to hear. Even indirectly. Thank you."

"Don't mention it. I just thought you should know."

They exchanged a few more words, then John rang off.

Molly put the phone down on the coffee table next to her bowl. It didn't change that Sherlock was an irritating, infuriating prat who took over her territory at Bart's as if he had a right to at all hours of the day and night, but... it was something. A very small something.

Molly looked down at the mangled swirls of white, red and brown sugary goop in the bowl sitting next to her mobile on the table. The thought of eating the bowl's contents made her feel faintly nauseated. She had bread, some cheese, half a tomato, and possibly a bit of ham left from Sunday. That would make a far better dinner.

Rising from the sofa, she took the bowl and put it into the freezer spoon and all, then started the kettle for tea.

-.-.-  
(that's all)

_Post A/N: This is the second time I've had Molly abandoning a bowl of ice cream in her freezer in a story. I don't know why this is my head-canon for her stress-coping mechanism, but at least this time I'm not setting her up with Jim from IT._


End file.
